


and you take me the way I am

by orphan_account



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-20 01:13:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8231095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It’s not uncommon in the boy’s sleeping hall, hearing – or even seeing – their fellow trainees jerk off. It happens regularly because, after all, they’re human, and they’re at that age. Most of them have learned to tune it out. But if it’s Armin, with his hitched gasps and dangerously provocative moans, some of the boys keep their eyes and ears (and imaginations) open.





	

**Author's Note:**

> [♠] Reiner x Armin [♣] Jean x Armin [♦] Eren x Armin [♥] Marco x Armin (all one-sided)
> 
> Use ctrl+F “[symbol]” if you want to skip to specific pairings, but if you’re reading every pairing, the order above is encouraged.

Even though he’s under a blanket, it’s clear from the silhouette that he has his ass slightly in the air and his face buried in his pillow, trying hard to keep quiet as he fingers himself deeply with one hand and jerks himself off with the other. He doesn’t do this sort of thing too often, not as often as some of the others in their barracks would like. From the suffering of training to the back-to-back titan studying to, well, being Armin, the faint echoes of Armin’s muffled voice are a rare thing. It’s tangible, _he’s_ tangible. Not an imagined, unresponsive girl, but a boy so close, as though he were next to them, bringing their own climaxes further past the edge, making their relief so much more satisfying.

That’s why nearly everyone is dead silent. They’re not asleep, not if their eyes, reaching for the shape of Armin in the dark, are of any indication, much less their hands shoved into their ratty pajama pants, like Reiner.

 

[♠]

His hands are too rough and calloused. He knows Armin’s hands are much smaller, he’s grabbed hold of them twice with the excuse of helping with training or the 3D maneuver gear. His hands are soft, probably from staying inside and reading books all his life.

It’d be so easy to push Armin down and have his way with the boy.

If Reiner really had it his way, he would have Armin begging.

“Reiner,” Armin would say with his angelic voice, ragged and gasping as Reiner fingers him. “ _Please_. I…”

Two of his fingers are probably all it’d take, judging by Armin’s small and lean body and his own thick fingers. Reiner licks his lips as he continues to grip his own dick, listening closely for Armin’s moans, only three beds away.

He tries to imagine his name in that same breathy moan. “ _Reiner_ …”

Reiner would have him screaming his name, if he could. But Armin’s an angel, so he’ll have to take it slow, gentle. At least at first. Push his fingers in and out of that tight hole, no doubt untouched by anyone else besides Armin himself, deep inside, curling ever so slightly to watch Armin squirm and leak precome from his hairless cock.

Armin would bring his hand to his mouth, blushing prettily from embarrassment, or something else entirely, and try to hide his arousal with his other hand. He’d look at Reiner, baby blue eyes teary and hazed from arousal. “Aah…”

Reiner’s almost too busy jerking himself to focus on his imagination. It becomes hazy and nearly splits in two. But he bites his lower lip to quiet himself, staying silent, listening for Armin’s voice, as his fist moves up and down. He can imagine the golden halo of Armin’s hair on the white sheets, the feel of Armin’s pure soft skin underneath his rough hands, the heavenly blue of Armin’s eyes.

“Tell me what you want,” Reiner would say to him as he pulls three fingers out.

“I want…”

He closes his eyes shut and squeezes his cock a little tighter, focusing on the darkness that carried Armin’s addictive moans to his heated ears. He thinks of the way Armin’s eyes water and glisten at the slightest strain, whether it’s after a barraging comment from some punk soldier or some strenuous training.

“I want your cock,” he’d say in the lowest whisper, tears nearly spilling over onto his reddened cheeks out of a pure mix of arousal and embarrassment.

He thinks of Armin’s pitched breathlessness, drinks in how it sounds, as he imagines that voice saying what runs through his fantasies:

“ _Please_ —please fuck me.”

After a deep shaky breath, Reiner grips onto the head of his cock, just the head, as though he’s only pushed the very tip into Armin. He tries his hardest to hear the wet sounds of Armin’s fingers thrusting into himself, but he can’t, and it makes Reiner wonder if the blonde angel’s doing it all dry.

“Please, _Reiner_ —“

His mind is getting clouded. Reiner can see Armin’s golden hair, his skin, his eyes, but his expression is blurred in the haze of lust.

“Reiner, **_stop_** , please—“

The thought had Reiner pumping his cock furiously. He’d thrust his cock into Armin without a moment for him to adjust, fuck Armin so hard the bed would creak loudly, bang against the wall. Nearly split him in two with slow and powerful thrusts. He’d spread those thin, soft legs further apart and pound his cock into that tight hole, deep until the hilt.

“ _Ah!_ Ah, Reiner, ahh, you’re so big—”

Armin would arch his back high off the bed and grip the sheets, crying in either pain or ecstasy or both. Reiner’s mind begins running astray, splitting from each other in opposing directions.

“You’re—you’re too big,” Armin would cry. “ _No—!_ ”

With those beautiful eyes, it’d be a waste not to make Armin cry. He’s seen Armin cry a few times, almost always when no one else is around (well, when Armin thinks no one else is around). Reiner could have easily taken him then, while his eyes were at their most beautiful—glossy and glistening, a blue so sweet it can only belong to an angel. But Reiner’s a soldier now, he’s got rules he must follow, comrades to protect and people to serve.

Still, he wants Armin to look at him with those baby blue eyes, whether it’d be with lust or fear. That determination he’s seen in Armin, much like the rainy day they ran side-by-side together as fellow soldiers, is something he greatly admires. Even Armin’s anger stirs something within him. But Reiner can’t decide between the two, between the roles he’s meant to play. The images collide inside his mind, a violent clash of arousal and confusion. An angel, or a victim--his comrade, or his prey. After a hot wave of pleasure goes through him, he finishes into one of Connie’s old socks, and decides there’s only one thing he knows for sure:

He wants to consume Armin.

[♣]

“You’re all mine tonight, Jean,” the small blonde, who he used to think of as fragile and innocent, would whisper seductively into his ear.

Jean can imagine it so clearly. Armin straddling his lap, one hand on Jean’s cock and the other gripping Jean’s leg for balance as he presses the head of Jean’s cock at the entrance of his hole. It’d be wet from preparation, done exactly the way Armin is doing right now in his own bunk, oblivious to Jean and everyone else’s eavesdropping; he would thoroughly, and, Jean imagines wistfully, enthusiastically, finger himself with the thought of opening his tight hole just for Jean. He thinks about how easily it would be for Armin to sink right onto his cock.

Armin would use his thin legs as best as he can to push himself to the tip of Jean’s cock, and let gravity drop him fast and hard, taking the entire length into his wet heat, over and over again.

“ _Oh_ , Jean, your cock feels so good,” he’d say, because Armin always knows what to say.

Armin’s smart, so he’ll know what he wants, how to say anything to get what he wants. With calculated grace, Armin would lean back, rolling his body skillfully and sinuously, keeping his icy hot sapphire eyes fixed on Jean’s. Moving his hips expertly up and down, fucking himself on Jean, he’d say, “Right there, fuck me right there—”

There would be no other option than to obey. Not if Armin looks at him like _that_ , the way in his fantasies: a sexually-charged cross between how Armin looks at him with his piercing, stone cold eyes after he’s cracked a poor-mannered joke or an unintentionally back-handed compliment (Jean’s real smooth) and how Armin looks at him when he’s got a basket of sweets or cookies from his mom, eyes curious and pleading and hungry. How easily those sapphire blue eyes make him crack. They make him flinch and say sorry, or try to explain himself, or even give up a cookie, knowing full well it means having to give one to Mikasa and Jaeger, too.

Jean always imagined how Armin’s hips would look held by his hands. He thinks about the way Armin’s gold hair bounces slightly, how it might bounce if he grabbed onto those hips and thrust up deep into Armin. His own grip on his dick gets a little too tight, but it doesn’t stop him from thinking about giving whatever Armin wants. If Armin asked Jean to fuck him, Jean would. He’d grab Armin’s bony hips and thrust up into Armin, again and again, driving his cock into that wet heat with everything he’s got.

And that’s when Armin begins to become undone, as he fucks himself on Jean’s cock shamelessly. It becomes less coordinated, almost desperate. Armin’s not the strongest, however hard he tries—his legs would give in, leaving him to roll his hips back and forth, keeping Jean’s cock deep in him, arms wrapped around Jean’s neck tightly.

“ _Mmm_ , Jean, you feel so good in me,” he’d moan heatedly against the crook of Jean’s neck, “ _So fucking good—_ ”

And, if Jean had it his way, Armin would cry for him, too, cry from his pretty blue eyes. Would hold him as close and as desperately and cry for him just as Armin would for that fucking Jaeger, as if he were the most important person inside these shitty walls, maybe even in the whole unexplored world, the world Armin and Eren talk about when they think no one’s paying attention.

The petite blonde would take his hand and kiss it. Maybe there’d be a scar there, from an important mission they lead together, or from some incident only they know of, something special and secret between them.

“Touch me here.”

Armin places Jean’s hand on his own cock. Jean can almost imagine what it’d be like for Armin to be hard and leaking from fucking himself on Jean’s cock, from Jean himself. He doesn’t dare dream that Armin, breathing heavily and shuffling ever so slightly under his blankets across the room, is pleasuring himself to the thought of Jean, but he lets himself have these lust-filled thoughts of Armin, thoughts of fisting Armin’s cock with abandon, fucking deep into Armin as if it were his only chance in the world.

“Jean _, don’t stop,_ I… I’m so close…”

He wants to kiss Armin, not only in his far-fetched fantasies, not only in his heated dreams but before a mission, and after, should they live.

“Kiss me,” Armin would command, before they’d kiss frantically, messily, as their control shatters and their hold on each other become desperate and dear. “ _Please_.”

He doesn’t have any idea of what Armin looks like when he comes, only a faint idea of what he sounds like (he wishes his bed was situated closer to Armin’s). He doesn’t have the slightest idea of what’s it like for someone to orgasm while riding his cock, obviously, being a virgin and all. Jean tries to think of Armin – his gold hair, his sapphire eyes, his stone cold wit and logic – losing every bit of his composure, abandoning all pensiveness and thought, throwing himself completely into carnal pleasure.

The thought it too much for Jean—he comes hard, sooner than he expected, barely able to catch everything in one of Connie’s hopefully clean socks. He didn’t want to use a new one from the pair his mom just sent him, after all. He feels warm all over, and his eyelids are getting heavy.

Jean falls asleep blanketed by thoughts of how happy his mother would be with another son.

[♦]

As much as Eren feels the arousal building in him, he feels shame. So much shame. It pains him to lust after Armin, his best friend.

But after an hour of torture – listening to Armin touch himself, waiting for Armin to fall asleep, feeling Armin’s warmth and heat radiate through him – he sneaks off to the toilets. He can’t hold it in any longer. The shame makes every footstep heavy and abrasive against his ringing ears, his ears still grasping onto the sounds of Armin’s gasps, his moans, the wet noises from Armin’s fingers, unwilling to let go.

He hears someone jerking off in the stalls, and fury boils his body.

“What the fuck!” the bastard yells after Eren’s right foot makes an explosive impact with the edge of a stall, sending a rattling wave through the rotten wooden stalls. He stomps into one stall, nearly slamming the door behind him, overshadowing the sounds of feet trying to tip-toe quietly but quickly away.

Everything is quiet but the voices in Eren’s head.

Sitting on the cold dirty seat makes him feel pathetic, small, sad. It makes him feel cold, dirty, wrong, so _wrong_ , to do this. He feels it every time, and lately, he’s been doing it often. He can’t help but imagine this of his best friend, the one person he cares for most in the world along with his sister. If it were just love, he wouldn’t feel this way—but the lust, the overwhelming heat searing his lower gut, his heart, his dreams leaves him feeling scarred.

Sometimes he can’t tell the difference between his dreams and memories. What he imagines, small moments of tender love, holding hands or staring at each other, could easily be a recollection of the past. Occasionally Eren wakes up to what feels like a dream, a nightmare, and Armin or Mikasa will be there as a reminder that he is alive.

Eren’s alive, and he dreams of Armin. He dreams of Armin smiling, laughing, crying. Sometimes he dreams of Armin kissing him, and more. But Eren’s sure some of it isn’t just a dream, after all, Armin’s kissed him before, somewhere innocent like the cheek or forehead—but he can’t stop thinking what it would feel like for those soft lips to kiss him on the lips, neck, even _down there_ , where Eren’s now stroking himself furiously.

He doesn’t know why, but he thinks Armin would be good at it.

His best friend, always the thinker, would kneel in front of him and study him, eyes and hands running everywhere. Armin would take Eren’s cock in his hand and stroke it precisely, languidly, before deciding the next move. And he’d look so serious while doing it that Eren would have to run a hand through his soft hair, trace it slowly to Armin’s chin, and lift it up to look into his eyes.

And then Armin would smile that smile of his, subtle upwards quirks at both sides of his chapped lips (from licking or biting his lips too much when he’s concentrating on a problem or book). His eyes would be gleaming in the starlight darkness, straight in Eren’s own. They wouldn’t need words between each other. Just gazing into each other’s eyes is enough for them to tell each other how much they need this.

And that’s when Armin would take him into his mouth.

Those same lips that told him about the endless salt water, the flaming rivers, would be around the head of his cock. Two hands smaller than his would grip the base as Armin licks and sucks the head teasingly, growing bolder with each and every move until Armin nearly mouths Eren’s entire cock. It’d be hot and wet, unlike Eren’s rough, cold hands. He tries to ignore the cuts and blisters, the bandages Armin carefully wrapped for him.

Armin would unabashedly touch himself, finger himself as he’s doing it. Eren grips his dick when he remembers when Armin starting doing it not too long ago—it doesn’t seem right, that his childhood friend knows of such a thing, but here Eren is, fucking his own hand at the thought of Armin reaching deep into himself while running a hot wet tongue down Eren’s shaft.

Knowing his friend, Armin would probably think of something morbid.

Eren should think of something morbid to stop himself from defiling his best friend in his mind.

Think of Titans.

 _Titans_.

_The walls. Titans can’t pass them._

_Armin wants to explore outside the walls._

“Can you…”

If he were a good person, he would be okay with Armin’s friendship. No, more than okay—honored. At the very least, he should be okay with just his eyes. Seeing and dreaming of Armin’s eyes and the way they look at him, as expressive and alive as when they were young and dreaming of the world. Eren should have been okay with only the fantasy of Armin’s mouth. It’s already more than he deserves.

“Can you put your cock in me?”

He shouldn’t be thinking about Armin on all fours. Eren knows the difference between right and wrong, and this is so very wrong.

“I read about it in a book.”

But his mind is raging, unfurling, unable to stop the illusions of Armin practically presenting himself to Eren. The image of Armin, just Armin, _his_ best friend, naked and bare and ready to give his entirety to Eren floods his mind.

“This position is best for the back,” he could imagine Armin explaining in a manner not unlike how Armin explained a strategy problem to him this very morning. “And it’d be easier for you, too. Anyway, I can’t afford to be out of commission tomorrow.”

Armin has read about everything from a book. This thing he does now – pleasuring himself with his fingers, moaning loudly, torturing Eren – couldn’t have been something he learned from another trainee or soldier, Eren thinks, _hopes_.

He wants to trace his fingers along Armin’s naked spine. He wants to hold Armin’s hips, rubbing them soothingly with his thumbs. He wants to kiss Armin’s back, from the neck to the hips. He’d caress Armin’s ass, knowing full well his friend would be tense and stiff from pensiveness, doubt.

Eren would spread Armin open and spit messily, generously on Armin’s hole. It’s slightly open, from Armin’s own wet fingers, but Eren wants to see the wetness roll down Armin’s body, coating the puckered entrance.

He could imagine Armin’s expression, looking over his shoulder. He’s never seen the vast body of salted water, the ocean, but deep in his gut he knows they look like Armin’s eyes. Stormy, thunderous. An endless blue. Anticipation and doubt would be building in those shining and teary eyes, worry in his slightly wrinkled skin between his lifted eyebrows. Armin has little confidence in himself, so Eren would have to show just how much he _wants_ Armin, in any way possible.

“Wait, Eren…”

Eren would ease the head of his cock in, watching and listening to the way Armin inhales sharply. No objection as Eren pushes further into the heat and warmth with uncharacteristic self-control.

There would be a small pitched sound comes from Armin, and he’d no longer be on his hands, but his elbows, face buried in his arms. The tips of his ears would be stained red.

His control is cracking as he imagines himself pulling out, pushing his cock back in, and the images and the friction of his hand is almost too much for him. He wants to hear, feel more from Armin. He imagines pulling out, but Armin pushing back, tightening around his cock.

When moans drip from Armin’s lips, Eren drinks it all up. His drunk off of the sounds Armin makes, the warmth of his body, everything about Armin.

“Eren, don’t stop—”

Armin isn’t weak or fragile. He can handle Eren being a little rough. He would have to, because Eren wouldn’t be able to control himself, not with Armin. He wants to, _needs_ to grab hold of those thin hips tightly and thrust his cock deep into his best friend, to embrace Armin and show him a pleasure so strong the reserved, stubborn, pensive, determined, fucking beautiful boy from Shiganshina would lose every bit of composure, worry, doubt and move his hips, fucking himself on Eren’s cock in rhythm with Eren’s thrusts.

“Fuck,” Eren says aloud, echoing through the empty bathroom.

“I love you so much,” he’d say against the softness of Armin’s golden, wheat-field hair, right above the tip of his ear. “Fuck, Armin—”

Armin would lift his head up from his arms, and they’d kiss—open, wet, hot. He’d gasp into Eren’s mouth as Eren continues to thrust his cock deep inside him, breathily, “Me too— _Eren_ , I love you—”  

His heart is racing fast. He’s about to come. The empty bathroom is cold but he feels so warm, heated by the thoughts of Armin telling him he’s loved. He’s so close to coming.

Eren bites his lower lip hard. In that instant he imagines he’s biting smooth skin, leaving marks all over Armin, his best friend, so everyone would know Armin is _his_. No, that’s wrong, he shouldn’t, he has to stop—but, Armin’s his, isn’t he? His best friend. He protected Armin, believed in him when no one else would. He shouldn’t but he continues thinking of fucking Armin hard, marking Armin with his teeth, filling Armin up with his come and vows of love. Enveloping and being enveloped by Armin.

Stifling a cry, Eren finishes into one of Connie’s shitty old socks. His haggard breath, restless thoughts and racing heart doesn’t stop him from imagining what it would be like to lay next to Armin after it all. He wishes he could be good enough of a person to say he’d be happy to lay next to Armin for the rest of his days as they do now, sharing the top adjacent bunks, innocent and chaste; but, he’s not a good person, not in the slightest. He hasn’t been for a long time.

He wants to hold, kiss, touch, bite, possess, wants to do anything and _everything_ to (and with) Armin as they lay next to each other.

He nearly knocks over the bin when he throws the old sock in.

The walk back to his bunk is long and cold, the climb up the ladder even worse. Armin shifts, and lifts his head just a bit, eyes not fully open.

“Sorry,” Eren mumbles, “I had another nightmare.”

Living is sometimes a nightmare. It’s not a total lie. But he’s piece of shit, saying that, because he knew Armin would do what he’s doing now—shuffling out of bed and crawling awkwardly over into his, scooting under his ratty, torn blanket.

Eren doesn’t have much, not since _that_ day. Aside from his uniform, he has two shirts and a pair of trousers and some sort of key and necklace; but most importantly of all, he has Mikasa and Armin.

His hold on Armin probably gets a little too tight, judging by Armin’s quiet whine, but Eren never lets go of what's his.

[♥]

Armin shouldn’t stare so openly, but Marco doesn’t seem to notice. Or, Armin thinks, he does notice, but he doesn’t mind. When Marco turns to him and smiles, Armin holds his breath, thinks about all the moist, heated dreams he’s had where Marco does just that, turns and smiles; he turns away from the gear and smiles at Armin, says Armin’s name like it’s the most important name in the world. But instead of asking if they could make love under the open endless night sky, he asks if he’s hooking the wire exactly as Armin instructed.

Deep, earthy brown eyes look at him expectantly. Armin wants to sink into those eyes, let them take a hold of him until he’s rooted too deeply to move again—but he holds onto his posture. He can’t afford getting too distracted, even when listening to Marco’s voice makes him want to melt, so he avoids Marco’s earth eyes, staring instead at Marco’s gear. He looks over it twenty times over, memorizes each and every groove and scratch until it’s etched into his skull. But it’s impossible to focus, not when Marco’s hands are working said gear with the utmost care and respect only the most honorable soldiers would give.

If only Marco would work him open with those long, careful fingers as he would with his gear—carefully, reducing Armin to a whimpering mess in a slow demonstration of precision and adoration. He’d whisper things in his ear, sweet and kind things, the kind of things only Marco would say to him.

“Thanks again for helping me,” Marco says sheepishly to him as he’s fixing up his 3D maneuver gear, following Armin’s advice. “You’re smart, Armin. Really, the smartest guy I know.”

Armin could tell him how he feels now. Force Marco to react, play his hand. But he doesn’t even know how he himself feels, not really. It could be purely primal – Marco’s an attractive guy after all, tall and handsome with little brown kisses all over his muscular body – or it could be the simple hormonal rush of adolescence. It even could have been fear, fear of never having the chance to embrace someone while possessing a heart that’s still beating.

Most worrisome of all, however, was that it could be love. Armin’s not foolish enough think that’s the case, but it’s worrying nonetheless. Scary, even. This minor adoration, this soft and sweet lust over not even Marco himself but a simplified concept of Marco—an idealized, imaginary version of him—had even the slightest bit of potential of spiraling into a romantic love so deep it’d be impossible to climb out of; it could become a love that will entrench him in his heart and mind and leave them both tangled in the 3D maneuver gear they are caring for at that very moment, struck in a horrid, tragic destiny on the battlefield, as all lovers during war find themselves.

“Armin?”

Marco puts a hand on his shoulder. Marco has three freckles on his right thumb.

He’s already got Eren and Mikasa to worry about. There’s no room in his heavy heart for more without weighing him down and keeping him from flying free—he’s got to don the Wings of Freedom at all costs. He’s got to get out of these forsaken walls.

So, he bites his lower lip and keeps himself from Marco’s bait. He gently pushes Marco’s hand away from his shoulder, says everything’s alright, resumes tuning up the gear. Armin doesn’t need to know anything more of Marco, nor does Marco need to know more of Armin. They’ll keep their understanding of each other where it is, with Marco knowing Armin as the smartest guy he knows, and Armin knowing Marco as the sweetest boy he’s ever met—a sweet, nice boy from the inner walls, with freckles everywhere and faults nowhere to be found.

Armin decides to keep his fantasies to himself, keeps his eyes fixated on Marco’s gear, and hopes Connie has more socks to spare.


End file.
